


Paradise Lost

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But the UST is real, Gen, M/M, Pre-Series, Siege of Storm's End, the timeline is fucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8356060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: And did those ships in ancient timesSail upon the wracked Narrow SeaAnd was the black sail sighted, now and then,Through barred windows of root cellarsMusty and dust-dancedThe choke of salt and onionsThe smell of smoke and meat, sweetAmong the tiny country cottagesThat would starve their soldiers, but welcome them back home.
 Stannis and Davos randomness; early meeting.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowsfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsfan/gifts).



Wine-wet and headlong the sailors sang and shouted their way to the nearest port, to their sure deaths, to the end of storms and the beginning of the silent times: for the ship was sinking. 

Storm’s End was a castle held by the rich, the same as any other rich keep, never taking pity on a pirate, a poor man or a criminal by desperation or desire. Storm’s End, at the point where Shipbreaker Bay met the misty Rainwood — a place not a one of the shipmen ever knew or would know, a place of solid wood, moist air, ice in the water above the canopy. But north lay Storm’s End and tossed in the waters was the foremost and proud ship of the black market, laden with finest fruit from Lys. The fruit had cost many dragons, and would now rot at the bottom of the sea, unless they made it to Storm’s End. Then, most likely, the rich men there would feast on it while the poor on the ship would rot, instead, in the cells. 

Davos, son of a crabber and son of a dead mother, brother to his shipmates and father to two boys, husband to lovely rosy-cheeked Marya; Davos, the smuggler who knew the seas and the shallows; Davos, who would soon see his end in a storm lord’s cellar, reached his sea-leathered hand into a barrel and from it drew a pomegranate. He opened it up, cracking the brittle peel, and picked out the seeds one by one, popping them into his mouth with relish. Davos’ hands were stained with the blood-red juice of them when his captain Roro Uhoris appeared on deck.

“The fuck are you doing, mate,” Uhoris greeted Davos with a too-hard smack across the shoulderblades that belied his light tone. “Might be those would spare us our lives when we arrive at my fine lord’s castle.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Davos said. “I’ve lived the first half of my life hungry and I don’t intend to die that way.”

“On your head be it,” the captain shrugged. “How is it that you aim to get us into port?”

Davos gave him a queer look. “We row,” he said. He threw the empty, pocked pomegranate over the side of the boat, swung down a rope to the oarbank, and, rubbing his ruddy hands together, began with his shipmates to row.

—

Davos was a young man, but the boy who swung open the portcullis was younger — a big, burly, muscled youngster with a fine scowl on his face to match the fierceness of his blue eyes and patchy black beard. 

“Father says you’re to come in,” he said rather sulkily to Uhoris. “You and him.” He gestured dismissively to Davos before turning on his heel. 

“Follow me,” he said, unnecessarily. “Were it me in the charge of this castle,” he added, “you’d all have your heads on spikes. Father shows too much lenience.”

“By the Seven, Robert,” came another voice from a doorway — young too, but harsh, stony, and with no trace of youthful mirth, “quiet yourself. Father will do his duty and deal with them justly.”

The older brother, Robert, whirled in fury. “Keep your nose out of this, Stannis. Go back to your maps and your books. Their fate is none of your business, you hear me? Father will hear of your interference.”

The boy Stannis slammed the door, but before he did, he shot a glare to his brother that shocked Davos with the intensity of its hatred. _That’s your own blood_ , he almost said aloud, but he kept his head down. Robert was an ass, to be sure. But it was an evil thing to look at your brother as though you wanted to murder him in cold blood for blustering around the way boys do. This Stannis, Davos thought, would need to learn some courtesies of his own. Davos wondered if he ever would.

—

“And so Father pardoned them,” Robert said, shaking his head. “Great gods, Stannis! I’d have had their heads.” 

Stannis was still angry but his curiosity made him look up from the book he was trying to help Renly read. “Why did Father say he did it?”

“He didn’t have enough evidence they weren’t smugglers.” Robert snorted. “I think that bearded fellow just talked him round. The one in charge would have fought Father and ended up killed, but the quiet one settled the captain and Father, and saved their pitiful lives into the bargain.” 

Stannis thought. Had he even seen two men? He remembered the captain, Tyroshi by the looks of him, with his hair dyed an unnatural color of yellow-green and his sword handle sparkling, despite the evident hardship he had undergone on his ship, before Father’s soldiers had made him leave his weapons at the door. But the other sailor … a vague memory of brown and dun was all Stannis had to go on.

He stood from the table, ignoring Renly’s protests, and went to find Father.

—

Lord Steffon was not alone in his solar. The Tyroshi and his shipmate, with the beard, were speaking to him and he was speaking to them. The voices carried to Stannis as he edged near the door: his father’s, firm and stern; the Tyroshi’s higher and animated; and the other man’s quiet, but rumbling, something like hearing a rockslide from far below the earth.

“Come in, Stannis,” his father said over his shoulder and Stannis nearly smiled, because Steffon never missed anything that happened and his son loved him for it.

“Yes, Father,” he said.

“Sit down.” Steffon gestured to a seat near the table. “I was talking to these men about how they will fare trying to free their ship from our bay. Stannis, these are Roro Uhoris, and Davos…” He paused.

“Just Davos will do,” said the bearded man. Tan and dun were the colors of his face, his beard and his clothing. His eyes, too, were brown, and kind. Stannis was wary of Uhoris but now he knew why Robert had said Davos had convinced Steffon to be merciful. It would be a hard thing to disappoint or deny the quiet, salt-streaked sailor who was too poor to have ever had a house name. Even still, Stannis knew his father would do his duty.

“Very well. This is my second son, Stannis.” 

“A pleasure,” Stannis nodded awkwardly. Cassana was trying, with mixed success, to teach him the little courtesies he would need to know. He was glad he had many years left to learn them from her, because he still felt rather hopeless.

Steffon and Davos leaned together over Storm’s End’s famed map, tracing lines of possible egress from the treacherous waters of Shipbreaker Bay. Uhoris leaned back in the chair, eyes darting across the room as if looking it over for a possible thievery. With a horrible start, Stannis realized that was probably what he was doing. _Don’t trust him_ , Stannis almost yelled out. But whether he meant the warning for his father or the sailor he did not know.

—

Davos followed the Tyroshi back down the echoing halls of the stony castle. He felt like he was walking on air: somehow their lives were saved, he was free to go back to his Marya and his sons Dale and Allard again when this vicious mission was over; they had, against all odds, met a merciful man.

In the little hall given over to the black ship’s men until they sailed away, Davos sipped on weak ale while Uhoris boasted of the riches in Lord Steffon’s solar. Davos, tired of the talk, slipped away out the door, making for he knew not where, and nearly bumped into the lord’s second son, the one who had come into the room while the three men spoke of the tides and navigation. He had seemed smart and respectful then — nothing like the cruel hatred that had descended on him like a pall when Robert had posed his idle threats. His father, Davos thought, brought out the best in this one. He was older than Davos had thought at first — not a boy at all, but a spare, harassed young man who already carried too much weight on his narrow shoulders.

He put his hand on Stannis’ arm in greeting and clasped the other one in a handshake. “Well met, Stannis,” he said. 

“Yes,” answered the young man, obviously trying to conjure up something to say. “ … I hear you’ll be off again soon.”

“Thanks to your father,” Davos said with a grin. Stannis almost smiled back, a disarming thing, a shadow of a smile on that stern face. “He’s a good man. And as for your brother …”

“Robert,” Stannis growled, all trace of merriment gone, his face gone hard. Davos frowned in sympathy. Surely something would reconcile these two to each other before they were grown.

Davos pressed Stannis’ hand once more. It was cold, but warmed between Davos’ own. “As for your brother …” He looked into the clear, blue eyes. “Don’t let the bastard get to you.” 

Stannis let out a silent, choking laugh. Davos smiled again, let his hand go, and turned back into the sailors’ chamber. _More ale_ , he thought, trying to drink enough so that the blue eyes and hard planes of the young lord’s face would stop swimming behind his vision.

 

_Epilogue_

Another evening steamed away with the sweat and filth of starving, desperate men. Lord Stannis, years older, lifetimes older, looked out over the crumbling parapet of Storm’s End, the only home he would ever know. In his near-delirium he thought he saw his parents’ ship, the _Windproud_ , sailing once more past the pale horizon. _Father, Mother, take me with you,_ he whispered with parched lips and white tongue. 

In the far distance he heard men shouting. The ship was coming closer. Stannis peered into the blue-grey fog. The sail was not the gold of House Baratheon; the two-masted galley Stannis thought he had seen was only a lonely, small boat. 

It slipped through the traitorous, deadly waves of the bay as if its master had learned it many years before and remembered. The starless night fell on Storm’s End, and the little sailboat neared, skimming the cross-currents, weaving around the waves. And the sail, brave and tattered, was black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Comma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommaSplice/pseuds/CommaSplice) for the prompt!
> 
> I should have had this betaed, but I didn't.
> 
> My apologies to William Blake.


End file.
